Of Words and Lies
by Moss Writer
Summary: "I, Matthew Williams, am a coward. That is all that I have to say." Trapped in his prison for months, Matthew turns against everything he's known in his life, trying to stay alive. He's desperate to come out—even if it means betraying everyone he knows.


_*Watchdogs._

 _A story begins with a word._

 _But this pen is forced by an oath._

 _I'd like to keep my head, so, thus continues the pen. This isn't a story, as much I'd like it to be, but unfortunately, a list of confessions._

 _Here,_

 _#1. My name is Matthew Williams and I am a compulsive liar._

What? No. His pen scribbled over the last line, so it was barely words, but a solid thick bar.

 _#1. My name is Alfred F. Jones and I am a prisoner of war._

 _#2. I am a good-for-nothing jerk whose vanity and stupid fantasies overrule anything else on my life._

His lips curved into an almost smile and he sat on his chair for a moment, admiring the words laid out on page.

No.

He scratched it out.

Then...what _did_ he had left to write?

 _Oh, right. So-called secrets of the organization. Well, to say I have utterly no idea was a lie, but to say I knew everything is also a stretch. So, here is the main question...how much_ exactly _did I know from the corporation?_

 _Good question...considering the fact that I have no idea either. But I'm not going to waste your time with the extra words (other than these words currently.) Well...what do I know?_

There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs outside the door. For a few moments, he froze with the pen in hand, eyeing the door.

"Are they moving more prisoners up here?" He had softly uttered, before the knob turned, revealing a bright light...and a man was thrown into his room, and the door swung shut with a final note of solemnity.

He was shirtless and his body was a sickly pale, battered with bluish-purplish bruises that was visible, even from where Matthew was sitting. His hair which had seemed to be once a platinum blond was now a mass of coarse white. He seemed...familiar...to say the least.

"...ahh...where did they...put me...now...?" The man murmured, weakly, lifting his head. He turned around the room for a solid minute, before his crimson eyes landed on Matthew.

A jolt of recognition flashed inside and he knew where he had seen him before.

 _Huh. This must be my lucky day. My co-worker has arrived._

 _"..._ hhh _..."_

Matthew looked up to see that the man had pulled himself into a sitting position and wasn't looking too good as he licked his lips and tried to speak again.

"...wa...t..."

He dropped the pen, jumping up and rushing to the man's aid.

"...wa...t….terr…"

"Oh, right. You must be parched." He fumbled with the canteen of water, twisting the cap, but the man just grabbed it, greedily, trying to gulp it down.

His eyes were sunken, Matthew noticed, upon closer look and his fingers were callused and rough as the man grabbed his hand. But his red eyes shone with a light of determination that had probably caused all the bruises on his body.

Most of the water had slid off the side of the beaten man's face, but Matthew was patient and held the canteen steady.

"Enough. You're going to drown me if you continue pouring it." The man's eyes flashed with mischief as he shrunk back with a _sorry._

"Did...did the soldiers beat the answers out of you?" Matthew whispered, but the man's eyes darted to him, as if it was the most important thing to answer.

"Ha! Damn right they did!" he grinned, proudly— _what exactly_ was _there to be proud of?_ —and he sat up straighter against the wall with a hand out, slightly grimacing. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt. I'm from the Agency."

 _Gilbert Beilschmidt, ah, a fine man. An albino. Now, you know what else would be great? If I knew anything past that._

Matthew remained, silent, as the other man's eyes ran over him, pausing over the mark over his neck. Once again in his life, he wished he could cover up the hideous marking, but his shirt wasn't long enough.

"We have met before, haven't we?" Gilbert sat up, straighter, seeming to want to say something more, but couldn't. Still, he could see it in his eyes. Surely, he must be judging him now.

"We're from the same corporation. Same side." _Same team,_ he wanted to say, but the words died on his tongue.

"Right." Gilbert snapped his fingers. "No wonder. Your name was William, right?"

"Matthew." he corrected, without any emphasize. After all those years of being mistaken for someone else, it seemed just a waste of energy to be properly angry. "Matthew Williams."

"Matthew? That doesn't sound like it fits you." Gilbert frowned.

"Hm?" Had he heard him correctly?

"It seems too boring for a guy like you. What about…..uh….well….yeah, I got nothing. But Mattie works, right? Right?"

"I guess." he managed, trying not to think of a past person who called him that.

And the smile that broke across Gilbert's face made the whole situation suddenly a lot more constricting.

* * *

 ***Watchdogs: some group of people who are determined the world is a shitty place and wants kill off all the remaining humans.**

* * *

 **This is taken place in some distant future...and I'll be damned if this is in any way realistic. I'm sure there are plot holes and ^^ above? There's more I plan to explain, but I really don't want to overload everyone with backstory and history.** **This is my first attempt at dystopian, since I was doing a unit on that a while ago and got inspired.** **I just want to keep everything short and honestly, I'd learnt my lesson with the last story about extending story chapters longer than they should be. So I'll be ending chapters where I feel is necessary. Please keep in mind that is not a story I'll be working on very seriously.**


End file.
